Just Breathe
by Moon Raven2
Summary: A series of vignettes about our favorite profilers dealing with all the stress and angst this season is throwin' at 'em. Chapter 6 is Garcia, and not quite as angsty...
1. Reid

**a/n**: This was _supposed_ to be a one-shot, but then I got the idea for Hotch's chapter, sooo... Anyway, chap. 1 is still about Reid. This clearly DOESN'T take place in the same AU as "Endgame," since Prentiss is mentioned in Hotch's chapter.

Obviously this takes place just after Reid got himself shot in 5x01, "Nameless, Faceless." If you enjoy it, please review me (please), and check out my other on-going Criminal Minds fic, "Endgame." Thanks!!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Not one lil bit. Thanks for creating them and letting me play. :D

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**Just Breathe - Reid  
**

**I need for something,  
But not more medicine.  
Somethin' has me...actin' like someone I don't wanna be  
Ill with want...  
**-The Avett Brothers

The nurse, round-faced and placid, held out the Tylenol with absolutely no expression marring her perfectly smooth countenance. If nothing else, she looked stubbornly weary. "There'll be no drug-seeking on my shift, thank you very much, I don't care if you are some fancy FBI agent," that look said.

Reid stared at the clear plastic cup containing the two white pills. When he'd asked for pain medicine, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, but of course he should have known. With a resigned sigh, he reached for the pills and swallowed them. The nurse checked his IV, told him to try to rest, and bustled from the room.

He leaned back against the starched white pillowcase, the muscles in his finely-cut jaw dancing as he ground his teeth against the pain. The pain. Wasn't there a bigger word in the English language to describe what he was feeling? It was like something alive, an organism growing out of his thigh, down his leg, then up again. His entire body throbbed with it, and the nurse brought him TYLENOL.

He had saved a man's life today. Spencer Reid, boy genius, had thrown himself between a trauma surgeon and a hurt, confused man's bullet. Really, on closer thought, he'd saved _two_ lives: he'd talked the gunman into giving himself up. Well, ok, so he'd been shot, but the doctor had saved him…

Anyway. Maybe all that would matter more if he weren't busy being eviscerated by two separate, vicious monsters: pain, of course; and his overwhelming desire for Dilaudid.

Reid had craved the drug since quitting, of course. Any recovering addict who said he didn't was either stupid, or a liar. Three-time Dr. Spencer Reid was most certainly not the former, and he was trying desperately to avoid being the latter. So, yes, he'd wanted it since the first time he'd said those words – "Hello, my name is Spencer, and I'm an addict" – but all those cravings were as a grain of sand to the Sahara.

Now, as his long-fingered hands fisted the sheet, turning his knuckles white, and even breathing was agony, the only pain comparable to the bullet hole in his leg was the agony of longing. He wanted that needle in his arm. He _needed_ it. He wanted that warm, cotton-wrapped oblivion. He wanted to float away on a cloud of nothingness.

He shuddered, groaning. Dilaudid, morphine, oxycodone…_Tylenol_! Tylenol for a gunshot wound. What's next? A Band-Aid for a severed limb? Here's something they didn't warn you about in D.A.R.E: don't do drugs, kids, because when you get shot saving someone's life they won't give you any FUCKING PAIN MEDICATION!

He clutched his stomach, wondering if he were going to vomit again.

No, too much movement, hurt too much.

He opened his eyes, not bothering to brush away the tears that streamed down his temples and into his tangled light brown curls. He sniffed, sparing a moment's mourning for the tailored black pants he'd been wearing. They had been new, and expensive, and part of his effort to dress less like a geeky grad student and more like a (slightly less geeky) grown up.

Realizing he was feeling a bit punchy, Reid closed his eyes again and concentrated on breathing. In, out. In, out. Simple.

Time passed, and his world reduced to pain and breathing, breathing and pain.

Gradually the edge of his craving faded.

Alone, exhausted, hurting, he just kept breathing.

* * *

_that's it! short and, er... sweet? perhaps. I just thought... the kid's been shot, right? but he's an addict, so they can't give him narcotics for the pain... geez, that must be _hell_!!_

_In other news...I don't normally use song lyrics for my opening quote for Criminal Minds stories, but I was listening to this Avett Brothers song when I wrote the story. I initially used the "Ill With Want" quote, then changed it, but when I wrote Hotch's chapter, I stole Reid's quote for Hotch, and put the "Ill With Want" quote back. Go buy _I and Love and You_!  
_

_Please let me know your thoughts/feelings/comments with a review. :) Thanks!!_


	2. Hotch

**a/n**: My muse insisted on turning my simple little one-shot into a series. I might end up writing one for each member of the team. I don't know. It's been a very angsty season so far! This one takes place at some point before last night's "Cradle to Grave." The line with Hotch asking Reid about his crutches was in, maybe, the second ep of the season? But, eh, we'll pretend that didn't happen...

Obviously doesn't take place in the same AU as "Endgame" because there's no Jackson, and Prentiss is here. :) Please review me if you enjoy it! I've had several ppl add the Reid chapter to their favorite stories list, and it has tons of hits, but only 3 reviews! I certainly appreciate those reviews (thank you!!!), but I'd love a few more. :)

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**Just Breathe - Hotch**

**The pain of the mind is worse than the pain of the body.  
**-Publilius Syrus

"How long will you have those?" Aaron Hotchner asked his youngest agent, Dr. Spencer Reid, as he came to a precarious stop on a set on crutches in front of Hotch's office. Hotch frowned severely, hating the fact that Reid even needed crutches. He blamed himself. He should have been there. Prentiss should have been there; she shouldn't have been running around town chasing—

He mentally shook himself, tuning in to what Reid was saying.

"...physical therapy, so it shouldn't be too much longer. I'll be glad to get rid of them."

"What are they giving you for the pain?" he wanted to know, dark brows drawing together in concern.

Reid looked away, unable to meet his boss' eyes. "Oh, you know," he said with a small, completely unconvincing smile, "Tylenol, Advil. The good stuff." Even he recognized that his feeble joke fell flat, and he winced.

Hotch studied the younger man through shrewd, narrowed eyes. He'd been dressing better lately, Hotch had noticed, less like a geeky grad student and more like an adult. His hair had grown out into a shaggy mane, and he had taken to wearing an elastic band around his wrist that he never actually used to pull the hair back with. He was fiddling with said elastic now, studiously avoiding Hotch's penetrating stare.

"You've been doing well, Spencer," Hotch told him in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. "Don't let this be a set-back."

Reid finally looked up in surprise, deep-set hazel eyes wide. "No, sir. I've been talking to my sponsor every day. I don't...want to go there again."

"Good. I'll see you at the briefing, then."

Reid nodded, a little relieved, and hobbled away. Hotch watched him go, a pained expression on his normally stoic face. _I should have been there_, he thought again. The thought of his youngest agent in harm's way (again) with Hotch not there to protect him (again) sent a white-hot lance of pain through him more vivid than the memory of Foyet's blades slicing his skin. Shaking, feeling a cold sweat popping out on his skin, Hotch beat a hasty retreat into his office.

He leaned over his desk, bracing himself against the solid surface, and took several deep, cleansing breaths. Straightening, he ran both hands over his face, then up through his short, dark hair, setting loose cowlicks that he struggled to tame on a daily basis. "Get it together, Aaron," he muttered impatiently.

The ironic part was he could deal with what Foyet had done to him. It had been painful, and traumatic, but he would recover. He was having far more trouble coping with the loss of Haley and Jack, and with the idea that Reid had to handle an UnSub _on his own_ because he, Aaron Hotchner, indomitable leader, was bleeding in a hospital while Prentiss ran all over town looking for him.

He knew Morgan had doubts about his continued ability to lead the team. Strauss had more than doubts, but that was nothing new. He rubbed the back of a strong, blunt-fingered hand across his mouth. Were they right about him? Had he lost it? His decisions had been erratic of late, based more on his gut than on his usual careful, logical thought process. He was beginning to understand how Jason felt, near the end...

Hotch moved to the window, staring out over the bullpen and watching his agents as they prepared for the daily briefing. Prentiss was helping Reid with his crutches while the younger agent talked a mile a minute, and Prentiss schooled her face into the tolerant, patient expression she'd mastered over the years. Morgan and J.J. were laughing about something as J.J. handed the tall, good-looking black man a cup of coffee. Garcia was wearing some ridiculous flower ensemble on her head and mile-high shoes on her feet. Hotch felt his mouth twitch upwards, the deeply-furrowed lines on his forehead smoothing.

He took another breath and let it out, counting carefully to ten. Morgan was getting antsy. Strauss had _been_ antsy. Maybe it was time for a change, to reassess, but he wouldn't abandon these people as Gideon had done. He'd already lost one family to Foyet. He'd be damned if he'd lose another.

_Keep your head above water_, he told himself, _and **just keep breathing**_.

* * *

_I kind of wanted this to be a bit longer, but I have trouble getting inside Hotch's head. Let me know if you enjoyed it, please! Also, I'll continue the series with the other team members if there's interest._

_Thank you for reading!  
_


	3. Morgan

**a/n**: ok, I'm a noob. I redid this chapter because I got Tamara Barnes' name wrong. Damn IMDB and my caffeine-sapped memory!

Thank you so much for the reviews on the Hotch chapter! I really appreciate them. :) A big, special thank you to **I Philosoraptor** for your kind reviews across the board. :)

I was inspired by the Scrubs bonus tv episode title prompts issued by Kavi and Sienna27.

Please review me if you're enjoying thus far, and let me know whose chapter you might like to read next. :)

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**Just Breathe - Morgan**

**Prompt: **Scrubs - "My Faith in Humanity"

**There's a werewolf out on my front lawn.  
He's lookin' pissed off.  
He's wet from all the rain.  
I think I'll go say hi  
And offer him a beer.  
**- Bob Schneider

With each and every case we work, my faith in humanity suffers. No, that's not true. Not _entirely_ true. How can it be? There are good cases. There are cases when an UnSub isn't a bad guy (or maybe those are the worst cases of all, like that poor kid Jonny McHale…), or there are cases where we save the vic and it all ends more or less happily. Relatively speaking, of course.

Those are good days.

Those are _rare_ days.

Mostly my days end like today. I feel…raw. Rung out. Rode hard and put up wet, as my momma's been known to say.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the vics. I see those people with their skulls bashed in; I see that man shoved behind the wall of that cheerful nursery (like a fuckin' Poe story, Jesus I hate Poe and his macabre obsessions…); most of all I see those UnSubs. I picture them running at that wall of cops like Butch and fuckin' Sundance over the cliff.

I can see Hotch and Prentiss walking away.

_Walking the fuck away_.

I can't...I know Hotch has been through hell. He's lost his family, been tortured by Foyet, has Strauss breathin' down his neck, but what the _fuck_, man? He makes me nervous. Antsy. I got no idea what's comin' next with him.

Is that why I'm back here? Is that why I'm parked in front of Tamara Barnes' building at 10 o'clock at night? Garcia warned me today - she _lectured_ me - about the dangers of seeing Tamara, and yet here I am. I close my eyes and I see Tamara Barnes. And I wonder.

Was Garcia right? Of course she was right. I _should_ stay away from her. She's the sister of a murder victim, and I'm not ready to be her knight in shining armor right now. If anything, I'm the one who needs a knight to save me…gender confusion issues notwithstanding. That's not what I'm talkin' about. I _mean_…should I _listen_ to Garcia?

She didn't listen to me once, and it got her shot.

That's not…I'm not…apples and oranges, for God's sake.

It's raining. I don't bother to cover my head as I climb out of the car, and the water streams down into my eyes, down my cheeks – like tears.

Apples and oranges. Is it really? If I go into her building now, knock on her door, I'll be setting us both up for something just as painful as any bullet. I won't get hurt. It's not how I'm built. But it would hurt me to hurt _her_. Hasn't she been hurt enough? Does she really need my damage and my bullshit making things even worse?

Fuck.

Fuck you, Garcia. How did crazy, paranoid, troll-doll-loving Penelope Garcia become the voice in my head? If I go up there, I'll hear her, naggin' away, and I'll see that _look_, that disappointment, that…hope, dashed.

I wipe the rain away and wonder when I last cried. I cried for Garcia, when I thought I might lose her. If I walk in to Tamara Barnes' building tonight, and Garcia finds out, will I lose her just as surely, just as completely…in a totally different way?

Jesus wept. Penelope Garcia is not my keeper! I'm a grown man. Tamara Barnes is a grown woman.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I just need someone to talk to, someone who isn't a profiler, someone who understands what it's like to feel this empty.

Decision made, for better or for worse, I duck my head and hurry across the rain-swept street, the air burning white-hot in my lungs. Ignoring the pain, knowing it's the product of a guilty conscious, I keep breathing, and I keep moving.

* * *

_Whew, that one was sorta like pulling teeth. I had the idea, I got about half-way through...and then I hit a brick wall. I decided to go to bed, and while I was listening to "Changing my Mind" by Bob Schneider (the song quoted at the beginning), the second half of the story hit me. I know he was dry when he knocked on her door, but consider it artistic license. :)_

_Also, I'd like to apologize for Derek's language. I'm sure his momma didn't raise him to be such a potty mouth, but I think if the show were on HBO or something, Morgan would be the one doing most of the cursing. :)_

_I had contemplated doing Hotch's chapter in first person, and after doing Morgan's that way I might continue. I dunno, dear readers, what do _you_ think? Let me know with a lovely review! I have Prentiss and Garcia ideas bouncing around in ye olde hopper, but for J.J. and Rossi...sadly...nothing. :(_


	4. Prentiss

**a/n**: I decided to use another of the Scrubs prompts for this one. It's in first person again, and despite the fact that I haven't written Prentiss before, it was surprisingly easy. Easier than the boys. :)

Please review me if you like what you're reading, and also check out my on-going AU Criminal Minds fic, "Endgame."

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**Just Breathe - Prentiss**

**Prompt: **Scrubs - "My Last Words"

**Now all the suffering that you've witnessed,  
And the hand prints on the wall -  
They remind you how it's endless,  
How endlessly you fall.  
**- Alexi Murdoch

I left Reid with Dr. Barton, sorting through the cases, and I went to find Hotch. We could tell ourselves all day long that the case in Canada was tough, that he needed sleep, that he'd turned his phone off to have a moment's peace...but we all knew that just wasn't Hotch. He was always on, 24/7, and no case, no matter how crazy and pig-filled and awful, was going to change that.

Something was wrong, and I'd nominated myself to find out what.

His door was ajar when I reached it. I pushed it open, frantic but trying to hide it. Files scattered. A healthy shot of Scotch poured. Blood. Oh God, blood..._Hotch's_ blood?

I wanted to faint, like some silly girl in a story. But I'm not a silly girl, and this isn't a story. I'm a grown woman, an FBI agent, and that's most likely my boss' blood all over his apartment floor. I felt sick, and my mind flashed through a series of images, like a slide show of Hotch: his smile, his ridiculous cowlick, his frown, the times he'd saved my life, the times I'd saved his. For a moment I was frozen, indecisive, but then I thought of Reid. Reid, alone with Dr. Barton...

My hands were shaking as I dialed, but my voice was steady as I explained what I'd found. Reid, bless him, grasped the situation immediately. He told me he could handle it, and that I should just focus on finding Hotch.

Right, find Hotch. Easier said than done, kiddo.

I took a deep, steadying breath, and tried to hear Hotch's precise, even voice in my head: _Focus on the scene, Prentiss. What do you see? What does the scene tell you?_

I knew: Foyet. He'd come for Hotch, and he'd taken him.

My last words to him had been, what, something trivial, something trite, something totally mundane. Nothing like, "Hey, Hotch, you're an amazing boss, the best freakin' boss I've ever had, and if anything ever happened to you I'd lose my damn mind. So watch your back and stay away from pigs and serial killers. Oh, P.S., your dimples make my heart go pitter-pat a little." I hadn't said that. I'd let him walk out the door without knowing it. And now...No, Emily, you will _not_ think that. He's fine. He's just...bleeding...somewhere...and alone, or, worse, _not_ alone...

Enough.

That was all hours ago. Now, home at last, I stare at my pale, drawn face in the bathroom mirror and wonder. What would I have done if things had turned out differently? What if we hadn't found Hotch, or worse...we'd found him dead? I left the BAU because of Hotch, because I refused to spy on him for Strauss, and I came back for him, too...at least partially.

I remember the look on his face when he realized Foyet's real targets were Haley and Jack. His pain made my heart ache. I wanted to...what, Emily, what did you want? Nothing you can have, that's what. He's your boss, and he's _Hotch_. There's nothing there for you, and wanting things to be different is foolish. This isn't a story, and you're not a silly girl.

I lean over the basin and splash my face with cold water from the tap. I have a sudden, very strong urge to cry. I'm not a crier by nature, and the tears now welling feel strange, unnatural, and I wipe them away impatiently.

Why am I crying? Hotch will be fine. Haley and Jack are safe.

But I know the truth.

I'm crying for Lucas Turner, a simple man used by his brother to do unspeakable things. I'm crying for all those shoes in that bin, all those lives ended for a madman's vision. I'm crying for Reid, shot because _I_ left him alone, now enduring the pain of a bullet wound without proper pain medication.

I'm crying for all of them, and I'm crying for myself. I'm crying because I know this job has irrevocably changed me, and I can only pray it's at least somewhat for the better.

The tears are cleansing, cathartic, and as I sink to the bathroom floor, my back pressed against the vanity, I uncover my face and let them flow. Hotch is still alive. We all are. I can tell him he's an amazing boss and an awesome person and maybe (if we were both _really_ drunk) that his dimples make my heart go pitter-pat. It's not too late.

My breath comes in gasps, and suddenly tears turn to laughter. I'm laughing and I'm crying and even though part of me wonders if I've lost it, I realize that after all we've been through, all we can really do now is just keep breathing.

* * *

_Whew, wrote that one in a whirlwind. The idea hit me, and there it was. Hope you enjoyed it! Please review if you did. :)_

_Maybe Garcia next? Still no inkling of an idea for Rossi or J.J. I feel like I'm letting them down...  
_


	5. JJ

**a/n**: Hm. I didn't really intend to have another one of these so fast. :) But I was at least partially inspired by **ilovetvalot**'s review, with idea suggestions, and the whole thing just popped into my head.

No prompt this time, though I've stuck with the first person format. I almost went back and rewrote Hotch and Reid's chapters, but I like the physical descriptions, and generally interior monologues don't include those unless you're extremely narcissistic.

Make my day, why dontcha, and review me? :D

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**Just Breathe - J.J.**

**Each one has to find his peace from within; and peace to be real must be unaffected by outside circumstances.  
**- Mahatma Gandhi

"Jayje? That you, babe?"

The familiar, Cajun-tinged drawl warms me from head to toe. _Will_. I drop my bag and keys on the table by the door and step into the living room. He's sitting in front of the TV, but he gets to his feet when he sees me.

"What's wrong, Jayje?" he asks, his narrow face creasing in concern. He steps closer, rubbing my arms with large, gentle hands. "What happened?"

I open my mouth to tell him, to explain everything, but nothing happens. I can't speak. I'm struck dumb by the love and concern glowing from his eyes, by the warmth and care of his touch. Only one word comes to my lips: "Will," I manage to whisper, and I can feel my eyes filling with tears.

"Hey, now, none of that. You know I can t stand to see my lady cry." He wipes away a tear, and I reflect that once upon a time my Cajun charmer would've said "_a_ lady."

"It was...a really...shitty...day," I finally gasp out.

"Worse than yesterday?" he asks, mouth quirking in that half-smile I fell in love with so completely.

I manage a desperate nod. "Worse. Way worse. Foyet came for Hotch; stabbed him, took him."

Will's hands on my shoulders clench and relax involuntarily. "Tell me, J.J.," he says softly. "It's ok. I'm here."

"We found him. Foyet dropped him at a hospital. Prentiss found him. But while she was looking, Reid got shot."

"Wow."

I smile, briefly, despite myself. "Yeah. I told you."

"You didn't lie, cher. How are they, Reid and Hotch?"

"They aren't giving Reid pain medication, of course, so he's...hurting," I conclude lamely. That wasn't what I meant to say, but I don't have to explain myself to Will. He understands. "Hotch is going to be fine, physically."

A silence falls between us, and he pulls me into his arms for a long, soothing hug. "Why don't you go check on Henry?" he says into my hair. "I put him down for a nap, but he's probably 'bout ready to get up."

I pull away, nodding. "Yeah, I think I will." I smile at him, a thin, wavering thing, but I know that he can read in my face all the things I've left unsaid: _I love you, without you I'd lose my mind, you're my rock, my anchor, thank you, thank you, thank you._ I _want_ to say those things, I really do, but I feel like...

It's ridiculous. I feel like if I tell Will exactly how much he means to me, it would be like a form of goodbye. Not goodbye because I'm leaving him or he's leaving me, but because...you say those things to someone when you're afraid you won't see him again. I know I'll see Will every night when I come home, but if I put into words all the things he already knows...that's just asking for trouble.

He smiles back, tucking my hair behind my ear, mussing my bangs with a playful flick of his fingers. "Go. I'll be here when you get back."

That's what I need to hear. That's what I need to know.

I climb the stairs toward Henry's room, but I hesitate a moment at the door. I listen, but my son is quiet. He's not awake yet. I step inside, lean over his crib. He looks so peaceful, as cliché as that sounds, and I'm careful not to wake him as I run a gentle finger down his smooth, impossibly soft cheek.

"Baby, baby," I whisper, "Momma's home. Sleep tight, baby. Momma and Daddy won't ever let anything happen to you. Ever. No boogeyman is hiding in _your_ closet, my little love."

I step away, sinking down into the rocker set in one corner. How many times did Hotch say the same things to Jack? How many times did he watch him sleep and vow to keep the job separate from that perfect innocence? And how hard was it going to be on him now, knowing he had failed?

Before I had Henry I would look at all the children on the street, in playgrounds, at the mall, and I would wonder...why do we keep having them? There are so many, and the ones we have we can't keep safe. Why do we bring more children into this world, exposing them to pedophiles and killers and abusive homes?

Now I have Henry, and some days when I look into his sweet, innocent little face, my heart aches like a bruise. I love him more than I thought was possible, and if someone were trying to hurt him...I thought of Hotch, alone in that cold hospital room, covered in bandages, worrying for his son, remembering their too-brief goodbye, wondering when he would get him back...

I realize I've started gasping, that I'm hyperventilating, and I try to relax. Hotch will need us - all of us - in the coming months. We'll need each other. I've watched this team bounce back from some really awful things, and I know we'll make it through this. I have faith in us.

I rise again and move toward the crib. Henry's still sleeping, and I feel a sense of quiet peace steal over me as I stand there, watching my son breathe.

* * *

_More dialogue than per usual for these, but I wanted that moment between J.J. and Will._

_If you've read my one-shot "Your Turn," then you'll recognize some of the fears J.J. has here, re: having a kid in a dangerous world. I think it's a theme with her._

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	6. Garcia

**a/n:** Yay, an update! Garcia, this time, inspired by Kavi and Sienna's January prompts. Enjoy!

Thanks to **PassionsInsanity**, **chiroho**, **darthluna01**, and **ilovetvalot** for the reviews of the J.J. (and other) chapter(s)!

Review me, loves. :)

* * *

**Just Breathe - Garcia**

**Prompt:** _Lost_ - "Left Behind"

**Anything to make you smile;  
It's a better side of you to admire...  
No one's gonna love you more than I do.  
**-Band of Horses, "No One's Gonna Love You"

I hate being left behind. No, really, I hate it. I sit here in my little cubby (though it's a much _nicer_ cubby than my _original_ cubby, and for that I'm grateful) while the rest of the team goes gallivanting off to Hera-knows-where, and I have to…listen. And watch. And wait. And worry.

Goddess knows how I _worry_.

I think everyone got a little peek at what my life is like when we listened to Hotch and Haley's last, horrible, beautiful phone conversation. When we heard the gunshots. It was like the time in New York when I knew a bomb had gone off, but I didn't know where my team was. Or, later, when Derek drove that ambulance filled with explosives…why _does_ it always have to be Derek?

I love my job. I've never been happier doing anything than I am doing this. I love my team. They're my family. That's why it's so _hard_ to stay behind. I want to be with them, even though I've only held a gun once in my life, and then I was almost more afraid of _it_ than of the man trying to kill me. I want to be able to put my hands on them and to see them in person and hear their voices not made all squiggy by technology. I want to _smell_ them, even Derek after he's been kicking down doors.

When Hotch invited me to Wyoming, I was thrilled. Surprised, but thrilled. Then he asked me to question that kid, Christopher, and I thought I was going to have some sort of stroke. I liked that kid. I knew he wasn't the UNSUB. I got his email address, and we talk some; I think it helps him to know that he can still be a wicked-ass hacker _and_ make a decent living.

What am I most grateful for? I mean, besides my loves and Kevin and my amazing fashion sense, of course. I'm grateful that I have a job where I can still be _me_. I have a bigger collection of baby animal pictures on my external hard drive than any one woman can possibly get through in a lifetime, and I need them. My job makes my heart hurt, but it also makes my heart _full_. My heart is full of my team and the good work that they do. My heart is full of pain for the victims, and joy for people like Christopher, the ones we save.

My heart is full of _life_ despite all the death that I see every day. When I wake up in the morning, I know I probably won't make it through the next twenty-four hours without seeing something icky, but at least I know my team has my back. No matter what. I know that no matter how horrible the images on my screen, I just have to keep breathing. I have to keep breathing because my team _needs_ me, just like I need them.

They leave me behind so they have someone to come home to.

Knowing that makes being left behind, as much as I hate it, much more bearable.

* * *

_Wow, hi, blast from the fanfic past here. I haven't written on "Just Breathe" in ages, but the prompt caught me. :)_

_Also, I know religion is rarely mentioned on the show, but Garcia seems like a Goddess-worshiping type girl to me. So she is. Here, anyway._

_Review me, please, dear readers. It makes me smile!  
_


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